Can you feel the Wednes?

We've reached the middle of the week and what good has it done us? I'll tell you what good it has done, us. We are now at the point-of-no-return. Mwah, hah, hah! Most of us are now committed to go all the way through to the end of the week. I say, most of us, because a few won't make it even though they now intend to and a couple of us have, acting on what hey called, inside information, already turned back toward St. Louis. They face a lot of embarrassing questions if that really is where they end up.

It's the deep of winter in the Sierra Nevadas and it's not going to be a pretty sight. Although I've never seen it myself, I hear the Snowbobs are hungrier at this time of year than any other. A Wagonload of nuns from St. Hershey's Church of One-Blessed-Second broke down up at SafeCo gulch last year and the snowbobs came from as far away as Colorado to feast upon their tender bits. Oooopah! I don't even want that picture in my mind. Little cats, little cats, little dogs and cats. There, that's better.

Mr. Ondaford told us this morning that Wesley Pancaker and his wife Travestina decided to lay up here in West Mumford and wait for the circuit Cadiologist to come around in the next week because he's having paroxysms of some kind of tachycardia and he'd like to try some new fangled medicine for it. I told him that we had to move on and he had our best wishes for his conduction system.

There won't be any new bingo cards taken on this trip because of the cholera epidemic in Fort Dungheap, the territorial gaming center. I know Captain Otter-Tallow has enough on his hands just burying the newly deceased without us showing up begging for game supplies. That reminds me, Vacuous Trent Newly died there last week of the choleric shits and there waiting for the body to stop before giving him a proper Christian burial in the big Christian lime pit they just finished last month, just in time for the big epidemic. Father Barthure Vinstimose sanctified the pit at an official ceremony using real wine from a bottle and the customary stomping of the white rabbits, as it is described in the book of Bright Shiny Things. Hallelujiah! Indeed. Especially if you're not a rabbit.

This will conclude our test announcements for this morning. Stay tuned for more frivolous mayhem and sanctimonious bullshit from Biff Turdington and the pie-shaped morning show.

More later,


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